


Operator, Please, Patch Me Back To My Mind

by TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Except that it's not, Harvelle's Roadhouse (Supernatural), Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Post-Canon Fix-It, The Empty (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28205427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan/pseuds/TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan
Summary: Chuck is defeated, Jack is God, Sam married Eileen and had Dean Jr., and Dean the First did not die. In fact, he's reopened the Roadhouse and is living the dream. Well, except for the fact that he feels the absence of a particular Angel very acutely, making working in a bar, so close to so much liquor, a questionable idea at best.Especially when someone wearing his best friend's face comes wandering into the Roadhouse claiming to be an FBI Agent.If his life wasn't already a huge cosmic joke, this would be funny. And that's saying something when your son is God.****************************************************************My guess is there will probably be smut, but you know how the boys tend to drag you around by your ear sometimes.This is a WIP, will be updated as often as I possibly can.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy & Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These first couple of chapters are meant to gauge interest in this story. I know this has kind of been done before, with Emmanuel/post-Leviathan Cas, but I'm hoping to put a new spin on it. Please let me know what you think. Thanks.

The year since Chuck’s defeat and what Dean and Sam had come to think of as Jack’s “Ascension” had been relatively peaceful. Not without cases, but they were all easy ones: a nest of vamps in ridiculous clown masks that for some reason John hadn’t been able to deal with, a couple of hauntings, and a lone werewolf feeding off local farm animals to avoid eating human hearts. Garth had taken that one in after the Winchesters had captured her; he’d insisted she was a good kid who just needed a family and some guidance. The boys had been more than happy to let that be his and Bess’ problem. It was their choice if they wanted one more child to take care of on top of Gertie, Sam, and Castiel.

(Yes, OK, Dean was still bitter about being skipped in the namesake department, and the baby’s name caused a sharp pang in his chest every time it was mentioned. Maybe sometimes he said _Castiel_ with a mocking, snarky tone to cover his hurt. He was most certainly not above such things.)

Dean and Sam had had their discussions about whether Jack might be a little more “hands-on” than he’d indicated he would be, given that they had just enough cases not to be bored or miss hunting, but it was never too much at one time, and never anything too perilous. Dean jokingly called them “Season-one” types of cases, thinking back to the time they’d been thrown into that alternate universe where their lives were a TV show. It gave Sam time to be with Eileen and their baby boy (and this time Dean got a namesake _and_ a godson, so up yours, Fitzgerald), and it gave Dean time to rebuild and reopen the Roadhouse.

His dream had always been to run a bar, not unlike Lee had gone and done, but he obviously was not about to make any demon deals to get it off the ground. In all honesty, he hadn’t needed to. The Roadhouse was a Hunter institution, and its destruction had left a lot of folks with no place to gather, no place that felt like that “home away from home” when they were on the road chasing monsters. Dean was more than happy to provide that place, given how often he’d benefitted from it when he’d been younger. It also didn’t hurt that a lot of folks came in just to meet “ _the_ Dean Winchester”, and since they technically couldn’t buy him a drink in his own bar, they would buy some for themselves and put money in his pocket. Win-win.

It was pretty amazing for Dean to see a whole new generation of Hunters with fire in their eyes and just a little blood (or ichor or whatever) under their fingernails. Sometimes, Dean missed having that hunger, that itch to be out saving people and hunting things, but most of the time, he was more than happy to leave that to the young’uns.

Plus, as much as loved hunting with Sammy like the old days, something was missing. Or, more accurately, some _one_.

Cas’ death, or sacrifice, or whatever his going to the Empty had ultimately meant, hadn’t just left a hole in Dean’s heart; it had pretty much ripped it to shreds. The bar, Dean II (“do _not_ call him ‘little Dean’”), and the occasional hunt kept the eldest Winchester busy enough that he didn’t have a lot of time to dwell on it.

Not _no_ time, though.

There were nights—or more accurately, early mornings—after the bar was closed, when every single thing that would stand still had been wiped, stocked, and tapped, and it was just too fucking quiet, that the inside of Dean’s head would consequently get too loud. Cas’ voice echoed in his head, over and over.

_The one thing I want… it’s something I know I can’t have._

_You fought for this whole world for love. That’s who you are._

_You are the most caring man, the most selfless, loving human being…_

_Knowing you has changed me. You changed me, Dean._

_I love you._

Then would come the deafening echoes of everything he hadn’t done and hadn’t said. All the ways he’d failed his best friend, his Angel, his fucking savior. The ancient, powerful being who had touched his soul and pieced him back together atom by atom, the one who knew him better than literally anyone else in the universe, even Sam.

Somehow, Cas fucking _loved_ him, even though Dean had done so many awful things, hurt Cas and so many other people so many times.

To top it all off, when it had really mattered, when Cas had lain himself bare and given himself up to save Dean's life, Dean had responded by doing exactly fuck-all. He’d stood there with his mouth hanging open like a dumbass while Cas had been absorbed by the Empty. Shit, the son of a bitch had been _happy_ to do it.

And why? For _love_.

Dean did not deserve that love, and he couldn't conceive of the idea that there might be something like that inside _him_. And yet Cas had said he saw it, had supposedly been completely transformed by it. His fucking stupid, blissfully happy smile as he'd gone to his doom was burned into Dean’s memory forever, a special kind of torture. Even forty years in Hell hadn’t prepared him for that.

Nights where those thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone usually ended with Dean passed out on the couch in his office without strictly remembering how he got there.

It was after one such night that he staggered out into the bar area still in last night's clothes, half his hair smushed against his head and the other half standing up wildly in multiple directions, and began perusing his whiskey selection. Hair of the dog, and all that. Behind him, the door opened, and someone walked up to the bar.

“We’re closed,” Dean grumbled. _Of course I forgot to lock the fucking door._ Fingertips drummed on the bar top. “Look, buddy, I have a headache, and my mouth tastes like the floor of a taxicab, so please go away and come back at four, when we’re open.” He turned around with a heavy sigh, and promptly sucked that breath right back in as he stumbled back into the shelves, sending bottles crashing to the ground.

The man standing at the bar was almost as tall as Dean himself, with thick, dark hair, and he studied the would-be bartender and erstwhile Hunter with intense blue eyes.

Eyes Dean would know anywhere.

“Cas?!”


	2. Chapter 2

The man, who _had to be_ Cas, furrowed his brow and tilted his head in that trademark way that indicated he was perplexed, but he said nothing.

Dean came out from behind the bar to hug the man wearing his best friend’s face. He was so overcome with a mixture of joy and surprise that he didn’t notice the obvious confusion on the man’s face as he nearly tackled him with the ferocity of his embrace.

The man grunted and wrenched himself out of Dean’s grasp, looking at the bartender like he was insane. “Agent Tyler, FBI.” He flipped his ID and badge holder open, and Dean laughed maniacally to see that it was right-side-up this time. “I need to ask you some questions about a missing girl. She may have been here not long before she disappeared.”

“Well, Cas, I gotta say, at least you came up with a better name than before,” Dean rambled, trying to make sense of the fact that _Cas was not in the Empty and he was standing right the fuck in front of him_. “No more ‘Agent Beyonce’, huh?”

The other man shook his head and sighed as he pocketed his badge. “Sir, you obviously have me mistaken for someone else. My name is Agent Steven Tyler, and I am with the FBI. And please spare me the Aerosmith jokes. I’ve heard them all.”

“Cas, c’mon, man,” Dean pleaded. The man was unmoved. “OK, ‘Agent Tyler’,” Dean said incredulously, using Cas’ famous finger quotes, “how did you get out? How the fuck are you standing here right now? And why are you just casually doing some dry-run of our FBI schtick and acting like you don’t fucking know me?”

“Because I _don’t know you_. What in the world are you talking about?” He looked over Dean’s disheveled appearance in a manner that said something like _Does your case worker know you’re out alone?_

In turn, Dean took a good look at _not-Cas_. His hair, usually a little wild and unkempt even on the best of days, was combed neatly out of his face. With _gel_. Instead of his tan trench coat, he wore a black one, with a charcoal grey suit underneath, and it was all impeccably cut to his form, instead of cheap and rumpled. Even his cobalt blue tie was knotted perfectly.

With a resigned sigh, Bizarro-Cas heaved a sigh and pocketed his ID. “Look, Mr. Winchester,” he began.

“Dude, call me ‘Dean’.” The Hunter was getting desperate, searching for any hint of recognition.

There was none. “Very well, Dean. I hate to have interrupted your... alone time,” he noted sarcastically, eyeing the bottles on the shelves, “but I do need to ask you some questions, as I said.”

Dean put both hands up in front of him. “Uh, yeah, OK, sure, but would you just give me a moment? I'll be right back.”

Agent Tyler cocked an eyebrow. “Fine.”

Back in his office, Dean closed and locked the door. “Jack?” he called softly. “Jack, c'mon, man, I need to talk to you.” Nothing. “Kind of an emergency.” Still no response. Dean growled in frustration and stage-whispered, “Jack Kline, you get your scrawny, multidimensional ass front-and-center right now!”

A couple of seconds passed, and then there was a fluttering sound as Jack appeared. He raised his hand in his classic greeting. “Dean. Hello.”

“Don’t give me that ‘oh, hello’ crap like nothing’s going on,” Dean snapped.

Jack looked confused. “What’s going on?”

“‘What’s going on?’” Dean mocked, using the finger quotes again. Damn, Cas had gotten under his skin. “I want to know what the fuck,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder emphatically, “ _this_ is.” He opened the door as quietly as they could. The Hunter and the deity tiptoed down the hall and peered around the corner simultaneously. Jack's eyes fell on ‘Agent Tyler’, who had begun drumming his knuckles on the bar top. Dean knew the minute Jack realized his error, because his eyes went wide in horror and he pressed his back against the wall, out of view of the Agent.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, pinching the bridge of his nose. When Dean just looked at him pointedly, obviously waiting for an explanation, Jack put one hand parallel to the floor, and the other hand perpendicular, forming a _T_ , and whispered, “Time out.”

It had been quiet in the bar before, but now, it was utterly silent. No air conditioning whirring, no neon signs buzzing, no knuckles rapping. Dean looked around the corner again to find Bizarro Cas frozen in place, one loose fist hovering above the bar top. He whirled around and grabbed Jack by the shoulders. “Did you just fucking stop time?”

Jack shrugged. “Well, yes. This is going to take a bit, and we can’t risk arousing his suspicions.”

Dean groaned and ran his hands over his hair. “Yeah, he already seems to think I’m completely insane, so, anyway.” He rolled his hand in a _c’mon_ motion. “Start talkin’, Zack Morris.”

“Who’s Zack Morris?” Jack tilted his head and frowned, the way his Dad so often did (and maybe cracked Dean’s meager heart just a little more).

Dean waved a dismissive hand. “Nevermind. Before your time. So.” He gestured back toward the bar and raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

“Well,” Jack began, wincing, “I might have gone to get Castiel from the Empty.”

“Might have?” Dean repeated, incredulous. “Jack, there’s a Cas who’s not Cas in my goddamned bar! I’d say you _definitely_ went to get Cas from the Empty!”

Jack ducked away from between Dean and the wall and began pacing. “OK, yes, I did try to get Cas from the Empty. Obviously, it… didn’t go well.” He shrugged sheepishly.

Dean gave an exasperated grunt. “I need a drink.” He went to the front, now that he knew Bizarro Cas couldn’t see him, and grabbed one of the bourbon bottles. It wouldn’t budge. Dean rolled his eyes. “Hey, kid, little help here?”

When Jack came around the corner and saw Dean looking flatly at him with one hand on a bottle of Knob Creek, he shook his head. “You know, most people speak to God with a little more… respect,” he intoned.

“Can you help me or not?” Dean snapped. Jack rolled his eyes and waved a hand. The bottle came away from the shelf and Dean sighed with relief as he popped it open and took a pull.

“That’s very unsanitary,” Jack observed. Dean just glared and took another gulp. “Anyway, I went into the Empty to find Castiel, and needless to say, the Empty was not happy about that.”

Dean scoffed. “So? You’re God.”

Jack held up one finger. “No, I’m Jack."

"But you _just said--"_

"And even Chuck didn’t completely control the Empty, remember?” Dean looked into the middle distance, the gears in his brain turning, and took another swallow of bourbon. Jack continued. “Well, neither do I, and when I found Castiel and tried to help him, The Empty fought back.

"I had Castiel and was almost out when the Empty grabbed his ankles and started pulling. We pulled back and forth until Castiel and I seemed to slip out of its grip and come flying back to Earth. I thought I’d succeeded, but…” He looked at Bizarro Cas sadly.

“But?” Dean prompted, irritated.

“But… he was empty, like when I tried to pull—” Jack stopped short of mentioning what he’d done to Mary. “He was just…an empty vessel, you know? Nothing inside. Just a lifeless body.” Jack sighed heavily. “So, I gave him an identity. A history. Memories. Nothing fancy, just enough to get by until I could figure out how to get the rest of him back.”

Dean slammed the bottle on the bar top with a _thud_. “Were you ever gonna tell me? Us?” He corrected himself quickly.

Jack nodded. “I was going to, yes, but I got sidetracked.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Sidetracked?! What could have sidetracked you from this?” He gestured frantically at Bizarro Cas.

“I don’t know,” Jack answered sarcastically, “repopulating Earth, rebuilding Heaven, making sure the Universe stays stable with me in charge and with all the tinkering I had to do. Little stuff.”

“OK, fine, whatever, you had big things on your plate, but you had time to give him his spanking new identity and memories, and yet you didn’t have time to drop a line to one of us letting us know?”

Now, Jack winced. “OK, I didn’t tell you yet because I was afraid to.”

“Jack, you have literally nothing to be afraid of ever again. You’re God! What could I have ever done to you?”

There was a brief pause, and then Jack murmured, “Look at me the way you are right now.”

Dean took a deep breath. “OK, look, I’m shaken up, yeah, but I’m not, like, mad at you, kid. Going in there after him, that took guts. I’m amazed you even got a husk out of there.”

“Husk! That’s the word I wanted!” Jack exclaimed, throwing up his hands.

“Wait a minute.” Dean leaned an elbow on the bar. “If you could just build him a life and new memories, why couldn’t you just recreate his old memories?”

Jack looked at the Hunter like he’d just fallen off the turnip wagon. “That is far too complex for me to do.”

“But you rebuilt _Heaven_ ,” Dean countered. “You could make an entire fictional universe for millions of souls, but you couldn’t recreate one existence for one creature?”

“Rebuilding Heaven was easy!” Jack argued, becoming frustrated. “I basically made it in Earth’s image, because I’ve _seen_ Earth. I’ve been there. And even if I got things wrong, it’s Heaven. It can be anything anyone needs it to be.

“Recreating Castiel’s whole existence, things that really happened that I never saw and could never even possibly imagine, and then to make them feel genuine to Castiel, that would be impossible. I mean, he’s thousands of years old, Dean. I’m three! It would be like…like Miracle trying to paint the Mona Lisa from memory.

“So, I improvised. I gave him an identity I knew, one I’d seen and felt like I could work with.”

Dean looked at Bizarro Cas. “Alright, alright, fine, so he doesn’t remember being ‘Castiel, Angel of the Lord,’” he mimicked in a throaty rumble, “and he genuinely thinks he’s ‘Agent Steven Tyler’.” _There are those fucking finger quotes again._ “So, what do I do?”

Jack smirked. “Dean, you know I can’t tell you that.” Dean glowered like he was about to punch him, and Jack put both his hands up in surrender. “No, Dean, I mean I really can’t answer that for you. You have to choose what you want to do.” At that, Dean did two things he rarely did: he hesitated, and he let his anguish show on his face as looked back and forth between his former surrogate son and his former best friend. Jack sighed. “OK, I can give you a hint. Kind of. Right now, this all boils down to two basic choices.” He raised his eyebrows pointedly.

“Should he stay, or should he go?” Dean sang quietly.

“Pretty much,” Jack agreed. “Why is he here?”

Bizarro Cas’ words came back to him. _I need to ask you some questions._ “A case. He’s here about a missing girl.”

Jack nodded slowly. “So, how do you get him to stay?”

Dean looked at Jack, eyes bright. “Work the case?”

“Work the case,” Jack confirmed with a smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah... my creativity has been taking a kick in the ass lately, so hopefully this chapter is entertaining enough while I try to plow ahead and get to the more interesting stuff. I have a couple of major plot points in my head, but it's the middle, like between those plot points, that gets really laborious to come up with, so bear with me.  
> If you're still reading this story, thanks for sticking with it.

Dean and Jack made sure everything was put back the way it was before the time freeze. This included putting the Knob Creek bottle back on the shelf, much to Dean’s chagrin, but at least Jack was able to give a little snap to tidy Dean up—clean clothes, styled hair, brushed teeth—so he would be a bit more presentable, as well as to give an excuse for the few minutes he'd been in his office before time froze.

“Much better,” Jack pronounced, clearly pleased with himself.

Dean waved a hand. “Alright, alright, you can get back to whatever raindrop or blade of grass you were hanging out in. I think I got this from here.” As Jack was about to leave, Dean caught him by the shoulder. “ _But_ , I reserve the right to call you again if I get stuck. Deal?”

Jack nodded reluctantly. “Deal.” Dean made them shake on it, and then Jack started time back up and flew off.

With a deep, cleansing breath, Dean went back out to the bar area, where The Artist Formerly Known as Cas was still waiting, sharp blue eyes appraising him again.

“So, you do own a comb,” he noted dryly.

A pang shot through Dean’s chest as he thought about how Cas’ hair almost always looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. _Irony’s a bitch._ He put his hands on the bar as though he were about to take the guy’s drink order and went with his usual defense mechanism for whenever he felt any kind of pain: snark. “Do you want my help, or not?”

“Of course. My apologies,” Agent Tyler ( _not Cas, not Cas, HE IS NOT CAS RIGHT NOW_ ) replied with a smirk that implied he really wasn't feeling apologetic at all. He pulled a photograph out of the inside pocket of his trench and slid it across the bar. "Have you seen this girl?"

She was pretty, young-looking, with olive skin and expressive brown eyes. Her long, dark curls were pulled up in a messy twist. Dean smiled, in spite of himself.

“Yeah, Natalie. Good kid.”

Tyler cocked an eyebrow. “So, you’re aware that she’s underage, then?”

Dean’s head snapped up to look at Tyler with total disbelief. “What? No.” When the Agent just stared back, stone-faced, Dean went on. “Look, is this some kind of trick question, or something? I check her ID every time she comes in, and she’s twenty-two.”

“Did you know that twenty-two is the most popular age to put on fake IDs?” Tyler's tone made Dean feel like he was being called to the principal’s office, which in turn reminded him of when he'd just met Castiel, and the Angel had warned Dean to treat him with more respect. Feeling completely lost all of a sudden, he swallowed hard and shrugged. Tyler went on, “Twenty-one is considered too obvious, but teenagers can’t typically pass for much older than that.”

 _Shit._ Dean should have remembered that from all those years making IDs for himself and Sammy. He cleared his throat and tried to control the tremble in his voice. “Alright, she got one over on me. So sue me. How old is she?”

Tyler glared at him, seeming to scold him verbally for being so dismissive of serving underaged kids. “She’s nineteen.” The picture definitely showed a fresh-faced teenager, but whenever she’d been at the Roadhouse, she’d been decidedly more made up, hair done, more grown-up outfits. Her ID had been _good_ , too. “Anyway, Mr. Winchester, do you remember when you last saw her?”

Dean didn’t bother correcting him this time, in the interest of moving this along. Still, he couldn’t resist getting a dig in. “Yes, _Agent Tyler_ , I saw her earlier this week. Maybe two, three nights ago?” He heard the intake of breath as Tyler was about to ask his follow-up question, and he went on, “She was here with a girlfriend of hers, Jamie. They come in together a lot.” He frowned then, remembering that night. “She left with some guy, though.”

While he was lost in thought, the Agent ( _not the Angel... the Angent?_ ) cut in, tone condescending. “Well, can you describe him?”

“I was getting to that. Thanks for being so patient and understanding.” He definitely was not enjoying this version of Cas. He was also maybe, possibly trying not to be incredibly hurt that any version of his Angel might not immediately recognize him, that their _profound bond_ wasn't enough to ‘break the spell’, so to speak. He knew deep down that it wouldn’t be that easy, of course, but that didn’t make it sting any less. “Short, pale, black hair, bushy eyebrows, kind of a dork, honestly.”

Another picture slid across the bar. “Might it have been this man?”

All the air was punched out of Dean’s lungs. The smug, homely face staring back at him was one he knew, and he was more than sure now that it was the guy who’d left with Natalie. “Son of a bitch,” he murmured at the photo. “Gary.”

“Yes, Gary Frankle. You know him?”

“Kind of,” Dean sighed. “My brother and I had a run-in with him about ten years ago. Almost got the two of us killed.”

Tyler’s brow furrowed and his head tilted again, and goddammit, Dean just wanted to hug him, no matter how annoying all this was. “Ten years ago? He would have been sixteen.”

“Seventeen,” Dean corrected. “He kinda…stole my brother’s identity.”

“There’s nothing like that in his record. Didn’t you press charges?” Tyler castigated.

Dean shook his head as he stared at the photo. “We couldn’t prove anything. It was… complicated.” It was surreal to be talking to Cas and not be able to mention demons, magic, or ghosts. “Dammit. I should have recognized that little shit.”

“You’re a bartender, Mr. Winchester. You meet a lot of people in a night. I’m sure that anyone who isn't a pretty girl is probably going to escape your memory, even if he did ‘nearly get you killed’.” Cas’ infamous finger quotes made an appearance to accompany the Agent’s disbelieving tone. “Anyway, we’ve been looking for Mr. Frankle for some time now in connection with similar disappearances in Lincoln and Omaha. What can you tell me about him?”

Dean took a deep breath and let it out, trying to find a mundane story that would work well enough. “He was pretty much just an awkward, nerdy guy who wanted to be someone else, you know? But back then, he was working with two other kids, trying to... ( _don’t say summon demons_ ) y’know, steal identities, hack into banks and shit, I guess, just wanting to get rich quick or whatever, but they panicked when we found them. We’re kinda intimidating, y’know,” he chuckled nervously, “especially Sammy. He’s a total softie, but he’s also six feet and four inches of moose.” He cleared his throat, noting Tyler’s distinct lack of amusement. “Anyway, one of them pulled a knife on us. Didn’t wanna get caught, dead men tell no tales, all that. We got away with our skins, and we just decided to let it go. Like I said, we knew we couldn’t really prove anything.”

“Mhmm,” the Agent hummed thoughtfully. “Well, Mr. Frankle has obviously graduated to more serious offenses.”

“Like they do,” Dean griped with an eye roll. He took a breath and studied the photo of Gary, then Natalie, and thought about the night they left. “Well, the night I saw those two…He ordered some fruity drink, a banana daiquiri, I think. I had to have Danielle make it; I don’t touch that crap, not even to make it for a customer.” He wiped a hand down his mouth and chin. “I don’t know. Maybe Danielle saw something more before they left. I can ask her. She’ll be in tonight.”

Tyler shook his head. “We can’t wait that long. Any way I could speak to her now?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Lemme grab my keys.”

“An address will be fine.” Tyler pulled out a notepad and pen.

 _No, I can’t let him out of my sight._ “Look, I can help. She doesn’t know you from Adam, right?”

Tyler frowned. “Most people I question don’t know me. That’s why I carry identification.”

Dean’s eyes threatened to spill over. _He’s not Cas. He’s not Cas right now. He’s NOT._ He managed to turn his cleansing breath into a put-upon sigh and said, “Yeah, I know, but I know the perp, and I know the vic. Just... let me help you, OK?”

“You sound like you’ve seen one too many cop procedurals.” Tyler’s jaw clenched as he jutted out his chin and stared Dean down, seemingly insulted at the suggestion he might need help, least of all from an ostensible civilian.

A memory flashed into Dean’s mind, clear as day: himself and Sam standing at a fictitious crime scene in suits, putting on and taking off sunglasses _at night_ over and over again, jawing their way through the most ridiculous one-liners in history. _Well, I say, jackpot. Well, I say, no guts, no glory_. _Get that guy a Tums. Gutter ball._ It was all Dean could do not to burst out laughing. And then possibly start crying again. _Work the case. Play your role._ “Well, I have some experience with stuff like this.”

“Federal investigations?” Tyler’s tone dripped with sarcasm.

“I used to... um... like, kind of.” Dean looked at the bar and felt his face flush as he searched for a viable explanation. “I used to...”

Realization seemed to dawn on Tyler’s face. “A bounty hunter, huh?” He said the phrase with no small amount of disdain.

Dean could have kicked himself for not thinking of that himself, but this was one of the most difficult things he’d ever had to do: to have Cas here, so close, and to have to pretend that they didn’t know each other until he could figure out how to restore his essence. “Yeah,” he said sheepishly, as though that would be something to be ashamed of, since Tyler definitely seemed to think so. “Well, y’know, a guy’s gotta eat, and I liked the idea of helping people, so…yeah, I was a bounty hunter.”

Tyler narrowed his eyes. “Being a vigilante isn’t necessarily the best way to ‘help people’.” There were those finger quotes again.

There was _not_ a flutter in Dean’s chest at seeing it again. There was _NOT_. “Hey, it’s a perfectly legitimate profession! We work _with_ appropriate law enforcement officials to bring criminals in, OK? It’s not like I’m…friggin’ Batman, or something.” He waved an incredulous hand and rolled his eyes, as though being accused of being a crime-fighting hero were the worst thing to happen all week, and not his first thought when he saved Sam’s life by clogging a gun barrel with a freakin’ pen on the first throw.

“Mhmm,” Tyler hummed again.

“Look, just let me help, OK? Please?” There was a fine line between a polite, if emotional, entreaty and flat-out begging, and Dean hoped he was staying on the side of the former. If he looked too desperate, it would probably look suspicious. “Like I said, I know Gary, I know Natalie, and I know this town. Plus, I do know how to conduct an official investigation.” _More than you ever did, Agent Beyoncé._

Something on his face must have looked just earnest enough, because Tyler’s expression softened ever-so-slightly. No one else in the universe, Dean was certain, would have recognized it, but he knew every tic, habit, and idiosyncrasy of the fallen Angel, and as soon as those muscles in his jaw loosened, he knew he was in.

“Alright,” Tyler said, “but don’t think I’ve ruled you out as a suspect.”

“Of course not,” Dean deadpanned. “That would just be bad procedure.” Tyler snorted and waved for him to follow. Dean again made to grab his jacket and keys. “I’ll drive.”

“I will drive,” Tyler ordered.

A thrill went through Dean’s body at the firm, authoritative tone in the Agent's voice. _Focus, Winchester._ “No way. My Baby’s kickass. You’ll love her.”

Tyler rolled his eyes. “You refer to your car as female?”

Dean nodded enthusiastically. “Uh, yeah, and when you see her, you’ll understand.” _And maybe remember something. Goddammit, Cas, REMEMBER._

They headed outside, and Dean locked up before leading Tyler around the back of the bar to where the gleaming, black 1967 Chevy Impala sat waiting. He leaned against her front end and smirked proudly at the Agent.

“Huh?” he prompted, gesturing at the rest of the car.

Eyes roving over Baby from front to back, he gave a sigh that Dean knew was conciliatory. “Alright, Mr. Winchester, we will take your vehicle.”

Dean fist-pumped, and did he notice a smile on Tyler’s face as he did so? Something that showed he was reluctantly endeared to Dean’s antics? He chose to believe he did. They got in the car, and as she roared to life, Dean sighed contentedly. He wished like hell he’d had the mix tape he’d made for Cas all those years ago. When he opened up his cassette carrier to look for an acceptable substitute, he mumbled, “Son of a bitch.”

The tape was there, in a case and clearly marked in Dean’s handwriting: _Dean’s top 13 Zepp TRA XX_.

Unable to contain his wide, grateful smile, he silently thanked Jack and popped the tape into the player. Robert Plant’s voice and Jimmy Page’s unmistakable guitar riffs soon filled the space around and between them, and Tyler actually rolled the window down once they were on the main road.

“You seemed surprised when you looked at your cassette tapes,” Tyler observed, though he kept his eyes studiously looking out the windshield.

“No flies on you, Agent,” Dean quipped with a grin.

Tyler flicked his eyes toward Dean for a split second, and then back to the road. “You can call me ‘Steve’,” he pronounced stiffly.

“OK, Steve,” Dean began, grateful for the extra few seconds to compose himself. “I, uh, I thought I’d lost this tape a while ago, but apparently, it was just… in here all along.” He shrugged and gave an awkward little chuckle. Tyler— _Steve_ , Dean reminded himself—appeared unmoved.

 _Of fucking course it’s Steve, isn’t it?_ Dean could feel his hands starting to shake at all the… _concordance_ , or _synergy_ , or some other hippie-dippie word Sam would probably use for all this, things that are just too damned purposeful to be mere coincidence. He gripped the wheel a little tighter.

Too bad Steve didn’t seem affected by any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have no idea whether that stat about the age of 22 on fake IDs is true or not, but I knew a 17-yr-old girl saying she was 22 and people bought it, so it occurred to me that maybe there was some logic to that.


End file.
